


the sky is blue in honor of him

by epoenine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, The Book Thief - Marcus Zusak
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Gen, Grantaire is Death - Freeform, I Tried, Idk what to tag this as, oh god did i try
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 12:45:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epoenine/pseuds/epoenine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The sky is blue today. The color of his eyes. In honor of him, I suppose.<br/>I am exceptionally bitter today. Mostly because it’s his day. The leader’s soul is the last of them to go."</p><p>The Book Thief and Les Misérables crossover. A fic in which Grantaire is Death and also narrating. You don't have to have read The Book Thief to understand what this is talking about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sky is blue in honor of him

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by two lovely people from tumblr, the-grief-of-persephone aka Grace and cornferre aka Emily. Both of them are amazing.<3  
> I don't own Les Misérables or The Book Thief, and I am not Victor Hugo or Markus Zusak.  
> I hope you enjoy it!

_i._

I’ve tried not to get too cynical, but what’s the point, if no one’s there? No one’s hearing my screams, or listening to a single thing I say. Not even the souls.

I am not important. I’m just the one who goes around and collects the dead. It’s not all what people make it out to be.

I’ve seen so many people bleed out and die in my arms. If you’ve witnessed the things I have, you’d be like me, too. You wouldn’t care for a single thing in the world, wouldn’t care if that protest went well, or if you’re making a difference, or if the barricades will hold, or if the revolution will change people.

There is not a lot to hope for in a world where everything just dies.

_ii._

The first time I see him, the sky is blonde. Not the ashy kind of blonde, it is the golden halo of curls like he has.

He is fierce, and he is a fighter. His name is Enjolras.

I think that explains it, really. He is as beautiful as his name.

His eyes are bright with hope and his voice bleeds passion. He stands tall and proud and he bats away any type of doubt. He is strong and he is not scared.

They are all fighters, really, but he has the kind of determination that is rare. I haven’t seen anything like that since 1832, on that day.

_iii._

I’ve latched onto some revolutionary group in Paris, schoolboys with a cause.

And for a while, it was nice. They would supply me with my daily dose of hope and then I’d be off again. But I always end up back here at a little thing called the Musain.

Yes, there are times when I can feel the hope that radiates off them. It is a beautiful thing, made me want to cry, if I could.

They speak of a better tomorrow, and after leaving to collect the souls, I would tell them that it will be no better than today.

“Citizens, the 19th century is great, but the 20th century will be happy,” he says, and the hope is strongest that day.

It’s a feeling in the air, everyone passionate and blindly following their leader into battle.

_iv._

He is my favorite color.

I have a fascination with all colors, as you know, but he’s my favorite.

I've never had a different favorite color, before I saw him. For all I might have known, the world was in black and white before he had shown me to paint it.

I would try to describe it, but it will not do him justice. He is beautiful, in all his determination and glory. He is brave and proud, leading these men to fight at the barricades.

He is the color of humans, the color of fire and ice. His blood boils and his voice rises with each word. He is the best thing I have seen in a human.

We are opposites, him and I. He is the light and I am the dark, he is every definition of living and I am Death, he is good and I am not.

Yes, he is my favorite color, and I am afraid I will forget him. I am afraid that the gold hair and clear blue eyes will slip my mind someday, and that I will have a new favorite color once his soul is gone.

I’ve never saw anything quite like him, in all my years. His passion burns brightest during speeches, but in the dark of the night, he is gentle and kind.

I am afraid for the person who sees him both ways, for it will be hard not to fall in love with his soul.

_v._

I’m not allowed to get attached to the humans, it’s in the job description.

But these humans, the revolutionaries who have found something to believe in, they are beautiful.

Enjolras, and how everything about him enraptures me.

The soft poet Jean Prouvaire who has to scrub ink off his fingers at the end of each day.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac, smart and leaders in their own ways.

Joly, Lesgle, Bahorel, Feuilly, all of them.  

They care so much for their leader, they care so much for everyone, especially the citizens of Paris. They are the first humans I’ve seen with so much love, and they will not be the last.

_vi._

On the first day at the barricades, the sky is red. It reminds me of him, even though it’s actually red with the blood of the men who are still boys, dying for this cause.

I go to collect them, and their souls are so heavy. Heavy with bullets and their hope dying in front of them.

I’m going to complain, even though I shouldn’t. They all had lives at home. Children, wives, educations. They all had hope and love and fear, and it is a shame they died.

But, it’s not my place to say. I am merely taking their souls from Earth to their new destination.

_vii._

When I collect the soul of the intrepid Jean Prouvaire, it greets me with a smile, like an old friend. It said, “I am Jehan.”

He is like a flower, though he might have the strongest will out of all of them. He is soft yet courageous.

His soul is delicate, and I lay it on the top so it won’t be crushed.

_viii._

I go throughout their group, collecting them all. Éponine’s soul, despite her appearance, is strong and bold. The soul did not show me any sadness. In its place, there is anger. Anger and love.

Combeferre’s soul is a shade darker than Jean Prouvaire’s, and Courfeyrac’s soul is next. His is colorful, a pallette of love and enthusiasm and freedom.

The guide and the center, taken from the barricades at last.

I try not to feel pity for Musichetta as I take Joly and Lesgle’s souls. I am just the collector, but as sobs rip through her body, I have to push away the feeling of grief.

I haven’t felt it in a long time, I’ve forgotten what it’s like.

For it is so strong, it almost knocks me off balance.

I don’t understand humans, and why, even knowing the end of their story, still _try_. I don’t understand why life and love goes on while someone can feel like this.

But, it’s not my job to understand. As I said before, I am just Death. I am just the collector.

The rest of the men do not go willingly.

_ix._

The sky is blue today. The color of his eyes. In honor of him, I suppose.

I am exceptionally bitter today. Mostly because it’s his day. The leader’s soul is the last of them to go.

Here my favorite color is, smeared on the wall his body is pinned to.

His soul is silent while I collect it, and he is beautiful. Silent and angry and fuming. Like this, he is beautiful. More beautiful than I have ever seen him.

I realize, while I was fearing for others, I was also fearing for myself. I am the only one who has seen him gentle and kind but also fiery and passionate.

I was fearing for myself, because here I am seeing him like this, here I am falling in love with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this! I'm back at bencutios on tumblr, feel free to say hi.  
> I cried while writing this because 1) The Book Thief is my favorite and brought on a lot of feelings and 2) wow. Grantaire, that was really deep.  
> Again, thank you for reading and please leave feedback! I'd love to hear what you guys thought.


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